


Stranger

by orphan_account



Category: Knock-Knock (Video Game)
Genre: ? kind of? lodgers situation is not so great for consent, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Doppelganger, Dubious Consent, Ghosts, M/M, Oral Sex, Other, Porn Without Plot, Self-cest, Supernatural Elements, Temperature Play, Touch-Starved, a bad attempt at world building, as in body temperature is can be anything, i finished writing the last section at 3 am ok, identity porn - kind of, oh yeah forgot one, well kind of not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Lodger has a guest; the stranger is wearing his clothes. It is happy to be home.





	Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> wtf am i doing. i havent written anything in months and this is what i write. lol

The stranger wore his clothes. If he hadn't known any better, he wouldn't have recognized the material, but it almost wore it better than him. A ridiculous notion; a thin sleeping gown, a striped scarf, and slippers could hardly be worn better or worse; they simply were. He should know, he'd gotten into the bad habit of wearing his sleepwear everywhere. It wasn't like there was anyone to see; even before he had moved into his little home, nobody was interested in watching him in the city. The world was much busier with other things.

 

“Home is quiet…”

 

The stranger hardly moved as he thought to himself. Polite creature; who would've thought? He hadn't, but perhaps he should've. His guests always were polite. Unless he wasn't sleeping - then they weren't. He hated that; who could tell when one was asleep? Certainly not he; sleep was an elusive, slippery thing; tricking one into believing one's eyes, even if they were closed. He was quite familiar with the back of his eyelids, and the visions he saw through them. Although if some of his louder guests were truthful, he never closed his eyes. What a load of trite! He always closed his eyes, especially when they needed him to. Not that the stranger needed him to.

 

“I am here. But is it home…?”

 

The stranger was pressing tentative hands against the worn wallpaper, one finger picking incessantly against the sodden material. He flinched out of his thoughts, snapping at it, suddenly angry. He hated the sound, hated the sound - would it shut up? Wouldn't it? Hadn't it known its manners just moments before? Didn't it know the visage it took, and the correct behaviors to enact? It shouldn't have done that. It shouldn't have done that if it had known.

 

“Sorry. Sorry. Loud sound, they are so loud, aren't they? I'll tell them to be quiet. I'll tell them. I'm home now, they don't need to be so loud.”

 

The stranger was murmuring, just like him. Echoing him. Strange half-assurances. He let it rest its fidgeting hand on him, let it drink in his physicality. He so rarely felt such things anymore, and although his second-anger was slow to drift away, he appreciated its warmth. Such a contrast to his own lowered, corpse-like temperature. He remembered the doctors in the city always picking at him, asking him question after question, always prodding him for details he didn't remember, for memories that tasted sour and sad in the back of his mouth. He always lost his patience with them. Wasn't that why he had moved here? To this place, buried deep in the hills, in the mountains. There was no one for miles and miles to bother him with questions about heritage and pain-locked limbs, or to prod him with weeping eyes. No one to spout nonsense about wrong decisions, about decay. It had been coveted, to read his Grandfather’s aged documents, to search the soil and plant roots for his Father’s misspoken secrets.

 

“I am home. I am home.” A pause; a delay. “Secrets aren't like that, no, no. Friend, must you be so quiet? They've stopped now.”

 

The stranger’s blank eyes flickered, cataracts obstructing wide pupil and sharp iris. It was closer to him now, arm wrapped around his thin shoulders. When had they sat down? His bed was narrow, but long, and their feet hung inches above the wood boards. They looked silly, dangling green slippers, loose socks sliding down around their ankles. He felt something roil in his gut, and realised the anger had left him bereft, empty. He had coveted this place, but when hadn't he? No, no, it wasn't that. It was - when had he fallen out of care for this place? He cast a lost gaze about the room. Took in the empty walls, faded remnants of a child-artist’s efforts spread thinly. Washed away, like so many memories.

 

“Do you remember that one, Friend? I drew that when I was three, and Father grew angry and left. Grandfather had a wet hand, afterward.” The mouth was thin, a slice of coal breaking the white sand. “Finally, I am home. Are you home?”

 

The stranger held its face close to his, murmured words soft against his clammy skin. He sighed deeply, and took its lingering hand in his. He couldn't think, think clearly; an answer or silence? He never knew when he spoke anymore. He still coveted the absence of the doctors, of the city; something had broken his heart about this place, but he stayed regardless. He told the stranger this; told it about the crying city streets, how it took so long to finally come home, because he had to walk the entire length. How some of his rudest guests were simply those who had followed him through the Forest.

 

“I didn't follow you because I hated you.” An exhale. Another smile, cataracts shifting. “I followed you because you knew the way home. I am finally home.”

 

The stranger was warm, lukewarm like a fever, like a just-remembered pool of water. He held its hand tighter, and felt his chest stutter. His head was buzzing; the moment he perceived, of reality, of clarity - it was falling away. Failing, in his thoughts. He had lost the thread of thought. The stranger was dressed in his clothes, red hair draping inelegantly down its neck; it was sick. It was very ill.

 

“I am home. I must go about my rounds; Friend, would you accompany me?”

 

The stranger rose, and pulled him to his feet after it. Was it planning something for him? He couldn't tell. The light was flickering; he thought of rising, to delicately fix the dying thing, but the stranger pressed a hot hand into his shoulder, and perched there, as it screwed the bulb back into place. He could feel its sweat joining his own, soaking his damp nightgown.

 

“Here, Friend, here. Let us fix the rooms into place. The House is untidy, the Guest will be angry. Now that I am home, I shall assist you.”

 

The stranger had an iron grip, tugging him into the next room. The light was off. It rose, perching itself on his shoulder once more, and the light flooded the room. The corners were lit, but he could feel eyes watching him. Watching them.

 

“The Guests are soon to arrive; follow me, Friend. Home is cold and dark; we must light it once more.”

 

The stranger led him through the rooms, its shadow grey and pallid, its form washed out and milky. He wondered if it could see. He told it that it must've lost its ability to invite and smother when it was dead.

 

“I can still invite, but no longer smother. Friend, I forget why. But I am home, and needs must.”

 

The stranger stepped over a decayed page, the paper fluttering in the still air. Waste and hate, he thought, and remembered the Invisible One. He asked if the diary could be found, or if the Invisible One had eaten it, as she had once promised to do. He hated her promises, just as surely as he hated him.

 

“The Invisible One? He's in the floor above. I wonder if he will come. The diary?” A pause, this one stilted. “I wonder.”

 

The stranger stopped, suddenly, and pressed an iron-hot hand into his chest, forcing him down, down, his feet slipping away from him. It crept close, and let its face touch his. Shared breaths; hot, and cold, wet and pensive. He thought that it must've hurt itself on its way home. He thought its eyes needed a doctor.

 

“Doctor? No, no. I am home; no doctors, no doctors. You know, they're dead now.” The stranger, it was a stranger, but it touched his face with reddened knuckles. Its fingers were white, skeleton sickness settled deep into its skin. He touched its hand, as it touched his cheek. Something warm, something chilled, something swallowed. Something killed.

 

He felt like his skull was leaving him behind, tears rushing into his brain. It felt warm, warm, warm and hot, sliding into his guts. Its tongue was soft, and he swallowed the shaking cold, felt it nestle into his chest. He was held, but it was in his arms.

 

He told it that it was escalating; didn't it know politeness? Didn't it know correctness? Things were slow, and he knew it was slow, and yet its fingers were picking at his hair, fast, as they had against the wallpaper in his bedroom.

 

“It wasn't your bedroom, Friend; and I mean only the slowest comfort. Manners won't be forgotten; can you hear them?”

 

He didn't. His thoughts were short, and he told it its comfort was amiss.

 

“Silence and amiss comfort; yes, I am home.” It smiled, teeth alabaster pale, and he knew it could feel his pulse, in his neck. “I must thank you, for your home.”

 

He didn't shake his head. He raised a shaking hand, and belatedly realised that they lay, together, on the floor. The light was off; he could hear the two-headed Guests wander inside the walls.

 

He told the stranger that it was strange. It was his home, but also it was its home. Misspelling could draw the Figure in the Forest into the home, and wouldn't that be shameful?

 

A soft chuckle. It sounded like old oakwood, creaking under distant force. It didn't speak.

 

Something moved above them, underneath them. A perfect circle, both around and inside; he could feel it, sloshing around his insides, around the cold-hot-hate-fear-fleshy-fatigue he'd swallowed out of the stranger's mouth. 

 

He felt distant; the distant presence that forced the sounds out of the stranger. His head buzzed, and the world spun like it had the morning he awoke to find the world oozing pus around the seams.

 

He felt its hand grasp at his throat; felt it feel his swallow of pain, the hiccup in his blood. It slid underneath the cloth so silently, his flesh jumped at its fingers.

 

Its head was a hot compress against his scarf. He could feel it unwind the material, the material it wore better than him, even though it was simple wear and nothing more.

 

It breathed his oxygen, forced carbon dioxide into his lungs. Its forehead was a shock against his bared neck, his dampened hair clinging to it.

 

It was touching him, its iron presence against his clammy skin.

 

“It must feel like death.” It was speaking, speaking to him. His head let the words bounce back and forth, distorting the sound. White noise.

 

Something knocked against the door. The stranger did not flinch; it was like its body was compressed into a narrow point, like a dense cutout of plasma. Shaped into a washed out simile of him.

 

He wondered if it liked his skin; if it liked to wear it, if it liked to touch it.

 

The stranger huffed a breath; something like amusement. A cold thing, tinged with soft warmth, slid across his barren shoulder. A tongue, small textures sparking pain, like lightning flowing down his back. “Sorry.”

 

Something crept up his thigh, sliding underneath his gown; knobby, a knee. Just pressing against his leg, between his legs. His chest was bound to burst. His heart was bound to burst.

 

His head was empty, so empty; he told it he thought his head must be hollow. It smiled up at him, eyes not an inch closed.

 

Eyes not an inch closed, wide wide wide open - just as hollow as his head. Cataracts obscuring any emotion it might feel, if it felt anything at all. Another tug, inside his belly; it looked away, but its knee was a still presence between his legs.

 

His ankles trembled; he was holding the stranger tighter, now, head ringing, ringing, ringing.

 

The doctor was coming, his appointment was soon; the city was a carry-on-til-the-end kind of creature, was bound to die before it stopped.

 

Wasn't that what had happened? End of the world, end of the world; this felt like the end of the world. The stranger was pressing narrow lips into his collarbone. Hot, sparking; fireflies against his skin.

 

His scarf was inches from his hip; thrown haphazardly, when he knew it had been gentle.

 

He felt its knobby spine through the gown; his other hand was fluttering at its hip. He could feel its hands, at his throat, at the small of his back, running slow circles through the cloth, into pale, thin skin.

 

Ankles crossed, around its bowed leg; blue veins criss-crossing its other limb. It had its gown hitched, just slightly. He couldn't see its body, except for hands and legs and skull.

 

Everything, everything happening at once; movement, at his neck, inside his chest, between his legs. His belly burned, low and gentle; it was rocking the knee, slow, slow, touching hot-too-hot skin into his shivering legs, against his organs; his member shivered, against its skin. The thing he forgot was burning, and his head was scratching out a frigid, ringing tempo. White noise; pleasant.

 

It was mouthing things into his shoulder, sliding his gown loose, down his shoulder. He choked, as it tightened around his neck; something creaked, far away, dangerous. Something tore, and suddenly he felt still, stagnant air across his barren collarbone. Its hand squeezed his windpipe, and something wet slid down his chin. It raised its head, but only to kiss the spit away.

 

Another deep, throat-choking kiss; his head empty and leering. Its tongue was a thick thing to mouth; he felt it taste his teeth. Another rock of its knee; he felt his hip rock up, in tandem, following the limb as if seeking heat. No; he was seeking heat. Its heat was rippling through him, crushing his brain in its suffocating confines.

 

It sucked in a breath, as his lower belly began to heat, excited. Excited, excited; he felt as if his face was a haphazard, thrown together mess of features. Its red hair, its wide eyes, its stiff limbs; they blurred, as his eyes watered.

 

“Look.” A hand; skeletal, skeletal, flesh rotten. Forcing his chin, forcing his gaze down, to the mirror. His eyes seeped at the edges, and he felt it smile into his cheek. “Look at me. You, I. Look.”

 

It lowered its body; chest to chest. His legs wrapped around it. It bundled him up, slipping hands underneath him; lifting him up with alien strength. He felt adrift; lost at sea.

 

“The sea… the sea… I wonder if Grandfather will ever take us.” It hummed, half in song. His brain was shuttering; he felt his eyes slide close, and then he was shocked awake by its squeezing arms.

 

The light blinded him; he felt it flinch, but they pressed onward. Above them, a sob; the Invisible One, maybe. A laugh, a chuckle, a simmering smile. He could hear them rise in sound; and then become silence.

 

“There.”

 

The bed was comforting, underneath him. He watched the stranger through half lidded eyes, belly still afire. He felt feverish, ill. He was so very ill. And yet his lungs were calling, his hands tingling, and his heart pounded too loud for thought. He felt like the sea.

 

It didn't follow him, didn't press chest to chest as it had moments before, didn't creep closer. It smiled instead, that cut of coal across white silt. Its scarf was loosened; with a slow hand, it unraveled and dropped the cloth.

 

The sight of that pale sliver of flesh, marked with pale bruises and black scars, sent a shock of pain through him. A lightning strike of sensation, sharp and tasting of milk. He felt his belly roar with something like want.

 

His hands rose; trembling, reaching for that vision; but it pressed his hands down, and held them against his legs. Held them in a warm grip, letting time wander away, like the tide.

 

When he had his breath, it lifted the hem of his gown, raising it up, up, around his bony hips; he felt the flicker of its touch, like a flutter of butterfly wings. Heat, rocking through his body, raising shivers and hairs across his belly.

 

His eyes, locked on the ceiling; it didn't know he wasn't looking. Couldn't look. He felt it mouth hot-wet-needing lips against his pelvis; underneath the shallow dip between belly and groin.

 

His breath hitched.

 

Its tongue slicked up his belly; he felt its spit, hot, too hot, cool suddenly on his skin. He shuddered out a breath.

 

Then, a hand, on his member. He felt air across the underside of it, and felt like his mind was splitting; away, far away, he felt and writhed at the touch. If he was too close, he would fall apart. His heart was pounding too loudly, his high-pitched breathing too loud in the silence.

 

He felt it press its nose against his thigh, hair tickling his genitals, soft and rough and too much against his belly. He felt it pause, as though unsure. As though smiling.

 

Mouth, lingering at the tip; lips forming against the slit. Then, a tongue; slow, slow, too slow, sliding down his shaft. He felt himself shiver; felt it knead, its hands against his bony lower back, pressing up against his genitals. His belly burned, burned, burned. There was sweat, dripping down his forehead, down his nose.

 

“You don't quite know what this is, do you?” Its words vibrated against him, and, distantly, he heard his pants grow louder, spit dribbling down his chin. His shaft trembled in its grasp, swollen with heat. “I want you to know this.”

 

Warmwarmwarmwarmwarm, incohesive thought, warmth, heat, hot, cold, too cold, when did it grow so cold? Then the heat again, flashes. His vision was black and white, blinking in and out. His breaths grew deep, inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale, its mouth swallowing him down, completely. Utterly.

 

Then, movement. Lovely, lovely; gently, slowly. The heat was smothering him, yet his brain was far away, far away, lullaby of the sea rocking him to gentle pain. His eyes rolling back, his chest shuddering. He felt the thing wrap around his bones, loving, loving, tender. A moan; he couldn't tell from where.

 

It rumbled around him; humming, as though in thought; pleased. It kneaded, gently, oh so gently, underneath his member, at his backside. He felt bruises, behind his thighs, form as if in afterthought. Its teeth scrapped, sharp pain raking against sensitive flesh, bleeding into the motion of its mouth.

 

Its tongue, compressed between its jaw and him, sent stars into his brain, sent loud croons echoing into the room, as it swept circles into his stiffened member. He could feel the back of its throat; could feel its saliva trickle out of its mouth, cooling on its cheeks, around his shaft. He choked back a cry, choked back tears. They fell against his cheeks anyway.

 

All the voices in the world couldn't wake him. But his own did.

 

He keened, hips pressing out, pressing up, seeking that heat; its mouth tightened around him, swallowing, swallowing; then, silence.

 

Like the room had suddenly filled with cotton swabs; his eyes had opened, and he stared at the light bulb, the burn from his belly and eyes pressing heavy in his skull. His huffed breaths sank into the room; he couldn't regain his breath. His heart thundered in his ears; his legs felt weak.

 

It rose from between his legs, wiping white fluid from its chin. Its bare throat, still swallowing, pulsed in his vision; he tried to look back up, to the safety of blindness, but it caught his gaze and smiled. It pat his knee, then, and tugged its nightgown above its head.

 

Its naked form scared him. The stranger had pale, blank skin, stretched tight across its bony chest, belly protruding only slightly with heavy organs. It had yellow, faded bruises; malnourished arms with black marks from rough recklessness. It sent a jolt through him, this off-white visage. He was scared of it. The feeling felt too much, too much like his high keen from moments before.

 

He wanted to cry. He told it, told it he needed.

 

“Shh, shh.” He hadn't noticed his clawed hands, raised up in front of his chest, reaching out to it. It grasped his hands gently, too gently, touch a flutter of bird song. “No need, no need. I'm home, now.”

 

He tried not to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> i avoided using the words ass and balls, and was unsuccessful. its 5 am and i havent slept in..... hours, i dunno. also im too fucking lazy to prettify the text... why does google docs look like shit when you copy/paste it into ao3? i dunno, i know how to fix it but im too lazy rn
> 
> i actually had more planned than this, but considering that it kind of turned into weird intimate fluff and i didnt know how to end it, i thought that it was best put to rest here. but, if yall want more, just say so. this was kind of nice to write.


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